


Wrap Your Troubles In Dreams

by GothamsFinest



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017), The Punisher - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Romance, Rough Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-02-18 22:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13110138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GothamsFinest/pseuds/GothamsFinest
Summary: He sucked in a breath when he realized I hadn’t worn panties. He instinctively grabbed at thebulge in front of his jeans as if he was ready to pull himself out. To fuck me senseless. To my chagrin, he didn’t.“Slut.”“Yours,” I replied.- Frank Castle and Missouri Frye try to wade through darkness and ultimately find each other. Now they have to figure out whether they're better together or apart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!

“Wrap Your Troubles In Dreams”

Chapter 1

I was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Here I was standing outside of Frank Castle’s apartment. Why did I even decide to come here in the first place? Room 401. The three black numbers crookedly nailed into his apartment door stared back at me ruthlessly. Ugh. They were pretty much shouting, _“What the hell are you doing here? Desperate whore.”_ right in my face. I couldn’t lie. 401 was right. I was desperate! And I didn’t care. I had to make sure he was okay even if that meant taking a shotgun to my pride and blowing its brains out.

With a quick snort of harsh winter air, I gave myself a startup. “ThreetwooneGO!”

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

The bottom of my shoe kicked the door so hard there was no doubt that he heard me. He lived in a shitty apartment in a shitty part of Hell’s Kitchen. Paper thin walls couldn’t block out my knocks or the smell of the pizza I’d bought him. If he didn’t answer the door that meant he was ignoring me.

Thankfully, I heard his footsteps shuffle against withered floorboards that couldn’t carry his weight without creaking in agony. A clink of metal, a bolt sliding from the lock, and a twist of a handle. That’s all it took for me to come face to face with Frank.

Keeping my composure wouldn’t be hard. I’d been shot at, chased down, and done things that could’ve gotten me the death chair, Frank Castle wasn’t shit to me at this point.

“Hungry?” I grinned. Frank didn’t reply. Beads of what I thought were sweat coated his neck and face. It was the dampness of his black hair that let me know he was fresh out of the shower. “I didn’t know what your favorite was so I got _my_ favorite, but I pinky swear that it’s the best pizza in New York. The handcrafted thin crust is no fucking joke.” My smile faded like the snow drifting onto me. “Hell’s Kitchen is literally freezing over.”

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

“And yet here I stand,” I said. “Don’t keep me out here all night.”

“Yeah, I ain’t decided whether to let you in or not,” he said.

“You haven’t?”

“No, I have not.” His fingers strummed a beat against the doorframe he held onto. “Y'see, coming here with a pizza and a pretty smile… yeah, it ain’t cutting it. What else you got for me?”

The fire behind his words made me bite my lip in a smile. I held out my hand, extending a brown paper bag his way. “Take it and see.”

He reluctantly reached out and took the bait. Taking a quick look inside, when his gaze found mine I saw a dim twinkle in it. Gotcha.

“Come on.” Turning around, he left the door open for me to join him.

“Yeaaaaaaaah,” I teased. “That’s what I thought.”

I’d never been in his apartment before, but it was exactly like I thought it would be. Dark, grim, and barren. If home was where Frank’s heart was then it was safe to say the man was dead on the inside. There wasn’t any furniture except for his bed, a few books, a chair and a deck of cards. Prison cells in Rikers had more feng shui. I should’ve known - once a marine, always a marine.

“Full transparency, your apartment is fucking depressing.” I placed the pizza on a cracked white counter in his barren kitchen. I shrugged off my hoodie and Frank sweetly took it from it to hang it. “You doing alright?”

“Me? Nah, I’m not alright.” He took a long swig from the bottle of Knob Creek within his grip. I didn’t know where he got the liquor, but I wasn’t complaining. I could’ve used a shot or two. The bottle flailed in the air whilst he spoke. I expected him to spill the alcohol but instead he spilled his guts. “I won’t be alright until I hear every last one of those fuckers plead for their life and I’m the one who gets to send ‘em straight to hell. Until they’re lying in a casket, unrecognizable to their mothers, I won’t be alright.”

“Sheesh, Frankie Boy, tell me how you really feel.” For a man with few feelings he could sure lay on the melodrama. “It’d be a lie to say they didn’t deserve it.”

“You’re goddamn right they deserve it.”

I sighed long and hard. Never did I imagine for us to end up here. “Don’t be stingy.” Snatching the bottle from his hands, the harsh sting of liquor incinerated the back of my throat and its warmth spread through my chest. “All we can do is wait it out. Wait it out and when the opportunity presents itself we jump on it.”

“Finally talking like an adult. You know, I always knew you had it in you. Glad I lived to see the day.”

“Guess you have that effect on me.”

The statement meant nothing to me. It was just a thought that came and went. I don’t think Frank felt the same way. His eyes, painted black by the hideous lighting, focused on mine like the sharpshooter he was. Maybe he was searching for something, for what I didn’t know. I didn’t have any hidden depths.  

Naturally, my breathing softened until I’d began to hold it. The heat of his eyes only worsened the tangles of emotion that threaded inside of me. I felt like a target with a tiny red dot lasered against my heart.

Slowly, my fingers crept out to touch Frank. Couldn’t believe I had the courage to do so, but somehow my fingers managed to trace the cobalt blues and plum purple hues swirled like watercolors along the curve of his face. He tensed beneath my touch but he was a big boy and needed to get over that shit. The bruise looked like a macabre van Gogh interpretation and it was all my fault. If it weren’t for me none of this would’ve happened.

I dared to take a step further, to see what I could get away with, and held his face within my hands. Frank and I may have been the loosest variation of friends, but he was still an animal. I treated the situation with tender precaution.

His eyes closed and his hand gripped my wrist tightly. Somehow my body naturally ebbed closer to him. How fucking pitiful were we? Two lost souls who’d found each other even in the ugly darkness. The moment happened only for a second before he stiffened and recoiled out of my energy.

I should’ve known. The only thing the Punisher was afraid of was intimacy.

His eyes snapped open and would you believe me if I said that I saw the life drain from them? The same heat that once made me tremble reduced back to the bitter cold glaze over his black eyes always held. He planted himself back firmly onto the ground, taking the bottle of whiskey back as he staggered away.

So long Frank Castle, hello Punisher.

“What are you doing here?” He asked before taking a shot.

“Again with the full transparency,” I shrugged. “I’m here for dick.”

“No.”

“Suit yourself,” I smiled. If Frank wanted to hold out then I didn’t give a shit. He’d only be fucking himself in the long run. “Let’s do something fun.”

“Yeah,” he scoffed. “Like what?”

“I don’t know… what do you typically do for fun?”

“Kill people.”

“Really, dude. You don’t do shit but read the Grapes of Wrath and count the cracks in your ceiling. What are you Amish?”

“Give me a break, I don’t fucking count the cracks in my ceiling,” he griped. “Don’t give me that look.” Finally, he gave up his protests. “Come on, I know what we can do.”

Many many many shots of whiskey later, Frank and I sat on his rickety crickety mattress, deep in a game of five card stud. It started as platonic fun, because who really got heated over poker with no money to bet?

The answer was, me. I got heated over poker even when there was no money on the line.

“You gonna sit over there and twiddle your thumbs or are you gonna draw cards.”

“Shhhh!” I wagged one hand in his face that he gently smacked away. The five cards in my possession weren’t bad… but they didn’t get an A+ with a sticker on it if you know what I’m sayin’. If I were going to build an empire I needed to know which pawns to kill first. “I’m thinking, dammit, so let me think.”  

“Think, bullshit, stall, it ain’t gonna change not a damn thing,” Frank quipped. He seemed amused by the anguish riddling my mind.

“That’s what you think?”

“That’s what I know.” Shoving a slice of pizza in his mouth, Frank smacked with his mouth full. “Cut the shit, you’re screwed. This is poker, Missouri, not patty-cake.”

He could go fuck himself. I knew what I was doing!

“Give me two, NO! Wait a minute…. I’ll take one.”

“One?” He questioned me with a single eyebrow quirk.

“That’s what I said.”

I slid him my card and he in turn gave me my new one. Bicycle didn’t do me wrong. The new sparkling number was all a girl could ever asked for. “Woooooow. Frank, you’re fucked. Does the term FUBAR mean anything to you because that’s what you’re about to be in a few seconds.”

“That’s what you think?” he mocked.

“Play the game and we shall see.”

He stared at his own five cards. “Yeah, I ain’t touching this right here. When you got a good thing you don’t let it go.”

Cocky bastard. There wasn’t a chance in Hell’s Kitchen that I was about to lose. “I bet two shots!”

That’s what we’d been using as ante. Shots of cheap whiskey.

“We’re out,” Frank said. He tossed the empty glass next to my place on his bed. Resting an arm on his bent knee, he gestured his fingers in my direction. “What else you got for me?”

My eyes widened as the repeating of his words. The dirtiness muddying his eyes could make a sinner blush. The danger in his voice made my breath hitch.

“Thought you weren’t looking for a quick fuck.”

“Don’t waste my time,” he said. “Shirt comes off.”

Who the fuck did he think he was talking to? There wasn’t a single piece of me that was scared of the Punisher. There was no hesitation in my next action. I was in autopilot. With a quick tug I pulled off my shirt, dropping it to the floor.  

Within his gaze I only found temptation. Perhaps he wasn’t expecting me to take the bait, perhaps he wasn’t aware the I wasn’t wearing a bra. He took me in like I was delicious. He looked at me like Galileo did the stars. It was about time Frank learned. He may have been tough and a well trained war machine, but when it came down to the nitty gritty, I was in control.

“This ain’t patty-cake,” I went back to looking at my cards and ignored his eyes lingering against my skin. “Your pussy’s showing, Frank. Remove the damn shirt or fold your hand.”

His lips coiled into a disbelieving snarl and I pretended not to notice. Guess he wasn’t expecting that. He yanked his black muscle tee off and threw it like he was pitching for the goddamn Yankees.

I shamelessly took in his carved muscles and perfectly crafted body from behind the blinds of the cards. Frank was sexy in every sense of the word. This was a sight I needed to savor. A piece of art that deservedly needed studying. Words couldn’t form in my mouth, but something wicked tightened inside of me. Scar tissue and bullet wounds adorned him like graffiti tags. Each told a story that I craved to know of. I wanted to run my fingers along the dark path of each marking, learn their history and memorize the patterns with my tongue.

“Speechless? Shit, that’s a first.” Frank’s voice was filthy with grit. He threw his cards on the mattress. “You see that?”

“Black is beautiful,” I said, marveling at the five spades in his hand. Frank’s vision, however, was back to my breasts. He soaked me in like a hungry wolf. I didn’t mind being his prey.

“Can’t argue with that,” he replied, taking his sweet time to bring his gaze back to mine.

“Want to see something better?” I asked. Not waiting for his reply, I dropped my cards one at a time. Jack. Jack. Jack. 8.8. Dicks and tits. A dirty full house. Not that Frank cared. His thoughts were in a dirtier place.

“I thought you said you were going to show me something better, Missouri.” His voice had turned rougher, darker. Full of desire.

I crawled across the mattress and straddled his lap. His calloused fingers pinched against the nipple that peaked through the purple heart ring I was wearing. I yelped. “Hm? You wear these for me?” he asked into my neck. The feeling of his smile threw me off my game. His smile was so attractive and rarely seen.

Telling the truth about certain things always made me uncomfortable.

His hand smacked into my ass. The jeans I wore provided little cushion against the attack. I felt its sting and screamed out his name as he demanded, “Answer me.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “Saw them online. Thought of you. The rest is Amazon Prime.”

He looked into my eyes slyly. Raising an eyebrow. “You thought of me? What were your thoughts?”

My insides clenched. He was fucking with me.

His hand came down hard against my ass again. This time he didn’t let go, but instead cupped

the ass he once told me was his favorite part of my body. The pain felt good enough that I moaned.

“Say it.”

“I thought they’d make you want to fuck me.”

The truth got him hard and when I felt him get aroused, my lust took over. My hips circled and I grinded myself against him. The sound he elicited could have been sold as an MP3 on Itunes. A low, sexy groan.

Frank pushed me onto the bare mattress. One day, I’d buy him sheets. “Jeans,” he ordered.

At his command, I pulled off my skinny jeans. He waited for me with little patience. “It would go faster if you let me take them off you.”

“You know the rules,” I replied.

He sucked in a breath when he realized I hadn’t worn panties. He instinctively grabbed at the

bulge in front of his jeans as if he was ready to pull himself out. To fuck me senseless. To my chagrin, he didn’t. “Slut.”

“Yours,” I replied.

He moved my legs to that they were bent, positioned his head so that they were between my thighs and took a long breath in. His rugged exhale felt cool against the aching heat of my pussy. I wanted Frank. In me. On me. Beside me. Beneath me. I was wet and wanting.

“You want to be my slut?” he asked, and planted the lightest, sweetest pecked kiss on my clit.

“Yeah,” I moaned. He could’ve asked me anything. To do his taxes or take out the trash. I would’ve agreed if it meant I could feel his tongue.

Another teasing kiss. My heart skipped a beat as I awaited more and never received.

“Please,” I cried.

“Keep begging.”

I felt the softest graze of Frank’s tongue. My fingers dug into his bare mattress. “Let me be your slut.”

“Louder.”

He surprised me. His lips sucked my clit so softly that it was dizzying. The pressure he applied was directly on the verge of being enough to get me off. My head shot back and I released a moan. My pussy pulsed, begging for Frank’s tongue, finger, or dick to cling to.

His hand slapped hard against my outer thigh. At the moment I opened my mouth to scream out, came a rush of pleasure. Franks tongue circled my clit.

“I want to be your slut, Frank!” I screamed loud enough that I knew the neighbors would hear.

And suddenly all the surmounting pleasure vanquished.

“If you want to be my slut, you’ll have to earn it. You don’t get my dick for free anymore.”

Huh?

I heard him move away from me. My eyes shot open and I sat up on my elbows to see him standing by the door far from me. He licked his bottom lip and pointed towards the door. “Now get out.”

Say what?

“Are you serious?” I asked. I was a little delirious. Maybe I was misunderstanding.

He found my jeans threw them at me. “Out.”

My hoodie and shirt came next, hitting me in the face.

“Frank, I-”

“Go.”

I narrowed my eyes. He wanted to be that way? Then let him. I pulled on my shirt and hoodie in record time. “I don’t need you to get off. I’ll call Bryan.”

Despite him being the one to evict me, I could tell from the change in his scowled face that I’d hurt his alpha male ego. “You call him. Better yet, tell him to call me. I’ll teach him how to find your g-spot. Actually, tell all your little boyfriends to gather here for class on Monday.”

“They aren’t my boyfriends, just like you aren’t,” I said with a smile as I shimmied my ultra-tight skinny jeans over my ass. Shame on me for wanting to look cute for this asshole.

He paused and gave me a dumbfounded look. “You think I give a fuck if I’m not your boyfriend?” he asked as he followed me across his apartment. “If you think that, then shit, maybe you should up your meds.”

Those words would hurt me later when they repeated themselves over and over in my head. But for now, I was bulletproof. “Quoth the psychopath.” I blew a kiss at him and opened the door. “Call me when you’re done being you.”

I didn’t even bother slamming the door shut. He did that for. Good. He could stay mad. How fucking dare he.

How. Fucking. DARE. He?!

I tried to convince my lady parts that they were better off without him, but they were telling me to apologize and get dicked down. My pride won out and I continued my trek to anywhere far from Frank.

As Hell’s Kitchen’s cold air blew my hair, I replayed everything in my head.

How did it end up like this? With me aching to feel Frank between my lips and instead having to satiate my longing with the final charms blow pop collecting lint in the bottom of my purse. It was green apple; my favorite. It wouldn’t taste as good as Frank, but it would have to suffice.

I needed time to think about how I ended up ever getting into this unfortunate scenario.

 


	2. Close Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's travel back to see how Frank Castle and Missouri started their tangled relationship.

 

**Thanks you for reading!**

The shitpool of events started on a cold and miserable Tuesday. It was my second time meeting Frank and it happened at 1:42 in the morning if you wanted all the facts.

“I'm starting to think there's something wrong with you. That maybe your clock ain't ticking,” Frank said. I hadn't taken a full step onto the rooftop and there he was. His silhouette backlit by the lights of downtown New York as he sat along the edge of the construction site's rooftop. The same exact spot he was in the first time we met a little over six months ago. I exhaled a sigh of relief. “You some kind of retard?”

“Last time I checked, your face was plastered on every news channel because you were playing a game of tag with the NYPD.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a much needed joint. Only through the powers of heavy Indica could I handle Frank's abrasive attitude. “Can't blame a girl for thinking you finally got one upped.”

“That's your excuse?” He sounded incredulous. My answer wasn't good enough. “You think I'm dead so you do _that?_ ”

He pointed towards the expansive piece of art I spray painted in his honor. Down in the city below stood a memorial for the Punisher, emblazoned on the wall of a downtrodden building in the heart of Hell's Kitchen. It was fucking badass if I do say so myself. The white of his skull that dripped on his chest like blood remained a focal point to every onlooker in the city.

“Filthy as fuck.” I beamed. It was my best piece of work to date. It'd only been fully painted for a little under twenty-four hours and it was already on the local news and a trending topic on Twitter. I was that bitch. “Frank Miller who? That's comic book shit, my friend. The absence of color was a conscientious choice. Black and white just like you. Don't you get it? It's a fucking metaphor.”

Frank's facial expression implied that he didn't get it. “Jesus Christ, you actually believe the bull you're saying. This is the kind of shit I expect a child to do. A six year old with too much time on their hands.”

“You know what's gonna happen when people see that? Every evildoing fuck is going to shit their pants.”

He twisted his head my direction and I got to see the surplus of anger bouncing in his already hard-as-stone eyes. He didn't like it. Of course he didn't. Any thing that could've caused happiness he resented. It was a defense mechanism, I guess. That or the wires in his brain receptors had become crossed. Either way I didn't care. My art was iconic.

“You know what I think?” he asked.

“I'd actually answer that if I didn't think your were being a rhetorical asshole.”

He swung his legs around to meet the floor of the roof and threw himself onto his feet. His voice was harsh in the air as he spoke to me. The clouds that huffed from his mouth made him look like a dragon. “You have a target on your back now. That shit right there is a spit in the face. Murderers, rapists, gang members. You think a doodle is going-”

“You cut your hair.” Frank didn't bother to flinch when I reached beneath his hoodie and stroked the top of his head. “The Portland beard is gone. You're sexy as fuck. Zamn Zaddy.”

I don't think Frank was flattered. His molten lava gaze unnerved me. Not in the way that I was afraid of him, like most would've been had they been on the receiving end of that stare. But it made me want to peel off my clothes and do whatever he asked of me. Was I a complete scum lord for wanting The Punisher when I barely knew him?

“I need your name.”

See? He didn't even know my name. Didn't stop me from wanting to see his dick, though. “It's Casper.”

“Not the ridiculous street name you put on your doodles. Your government name.” The frustration in his voice almost made me want to tell the truth.

“Casper!” I said, then took a puff of my joint. “Because I'm a fucking ghost.” Smoke spiraled out of my mouth as I spoke. I lifted the joint towards Frank. Sharing is always caring. “Want some?”

He took my joint and flicked it off the side of the building. My mouth dropped. “Seriously?!” I screamed at him. “You owe me like 20 bucks for that. That was Northern Lights imported straight from Seattle.”

“You're running around here like this is some fucking game of Candyland. You know what? I get it. You like the idea of someone protecting you. The Punisher makes you feel safe.”

“He makes me feel lots of things,” I flirted shamelessly.

Frank, again, wasn't amused. “I'm not some good guy you need to make your hero and glorify on the side of a wall. I'm not even close to being that. And if you knew what I was really like, you would be too afraid to have this conversation with me. The type of people I kill, they're not going to like these little tokens of your appreciation. Not one bit. All you're doing is putting a red dot target right on the center of your forehead. Stop with the doodles before you find yourself in a six foot grave.” He walked away from me the way an adult would a toddler. As if that was just that. End of discussion.

Was I supposed to run after him and apologize even though I did nothing wrong? I wasn't going to. I wasn't going to heed his stupid warnings either. New York needed the Punisher. The world needed the Punisher. Frank might not have been able to understand that my art spoke the words that were dormant in the hearts of the masses, waiting to be revealed. But I understood it, and one day, he'd understand too.

But that might have just been the Northern Lights talking.

I watched Frank as he walked away, eventually disappearing from my vision altogether. I was just happy that he was alive and that Hell's Kitchen could fall asleep knowing that its great defender was still on the prowl.

 


	3. Brush Strokes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank and Missouri go on a date!

**_Frank's Point of View_ **

"You don't have to fall in love with the girl, Frank," Micro repeated as if Frank had a hearing problem.

Frank nervously shifted in his seat. Then rubbed his brow. That "L" word. He didn't like the sound of it without his wife's name being in the same sentence. It felt like cheating. At night, in the dark, he could still hear Maria's voice in his head - as clear as church bells. Going on a date... it was cheating. "Even if I went on this... date... This ain't got nothing to do with love."

"You're right," Micro resigned.

Frank's lips twitched into a frown. "You're doing that thing."

"What thing?"

"That thing you do."

"What thing, Frank?"

"That thing where you pretend you understand and you're on my side when really you're taking the complete opposite stance of me."

Micro waved his hands in exasperation. "It has nothing to do with love, Frank. You said it yourself better than I ever could. It has nothing to do with love. But," Micro paused to wag a finger at Frank to stop him from interrupting, "but it does have everything to do with getting out of your head."

This was beyond frustrating. He didn't need to get hooked up with someone just to get out of his head. That's what hard liquor was for. "Cancel the date."

"I'm not going to cancel on her. She's our kids' art teacher, for fucks sake."

"Cancel it."

"Don't you think-"

Frank's fist pounded into the table. Coffee jumped with fright from its mug and splashed overboard. The quake was small on the richter scale, but it caused several nosey eyes in the diner to glare in the direction of their booth. In New York fashion, Frank had a good mind to tell them all to fuck off and mind their own, but he restrained himself and instead rubbed his creased brow.

Micro cleared his throat and changed his tone to something milder, the way a person would talk to a wild tiger as they slowly backed out of its cage. "You act as if it's a death sentence to go out and have a good time with a pretty woman. You want it cancelled? I'll cancel."

"When your wife thought you were dead would you have wanted her to go out with other men?"

"It would have been tough for me to watch. Tough as the balls on a bull. But if I were to die, I've always let Sarah know that she has every right to move on. To love again-"

"Bullshit."

"To live and to-"

"Bullshit!"

"And to be free! To have fun!"

"I'm not buying a word of it," Frank scoffed, waving Micro off.

"You mean to tell me that after all the times you went off to fight for our country, you never discussed what your wife should do if something were to happen to you?"

Of course Frank had. And of course, he had given her the spiel that everyone who loves their significant other unconditionally gives. With a kiss on her forehead, he had let her know that if he were to not make it back home, she needed to find someone else and fall in love all over again. But it was different now. How was he supposed to move on? How was he supposed to let go?

Her words slipped into his conscience. The same words he had told her when she had begged those same questions. "You do it," her voice floated throughout him, "because you know the last thing I'd want you to ever do is weep when happiness is an option."

Against his own wishes, he lost his resolve and accepted his fate. "Where's this date supposed to be?" he asked quietly.

Frank's pain wasn't lost on Micro. He did his best to be supportive and upbeat. The transition into a more "mundane" life had been tough for the marine. "It's a wine and paint class. Fun right?"

"Wine and paint," Frank grunted. "What type of shit you got me going to?"

"Fun shit, Frank. Just roll with the punches."

...

The art studio was deep in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, which was full of hipsters trying hard to be cool. Or maybe they were trying hard to not be cool. He didn't care too much to decide which.

Frank had arrived 10 minutes early. The instructor was still setting up the still life objects that they were going to paint. Apples and guitars. Mundane shit. He took a seat on a stool in front of one of the 15 or so easels. He was confident and cool as he spritzed some breath freshener into his mouth.

But as the 20 and 30-something began to invade the studio, Frank's nerves tangled into a knot a boy scout couldn't undo. He had seen literal brains come out of a guy's head and had been calmer than he was now. Every time a girl came into the studio his heart jumped. Was it her?

And each time it wasn't, his anxiety increased two fold. Suddenly, he was worried about what he wore. Why hadn't he chosen something more colorful like the others? Would he seem stupid? What would he even talk about? Art? He didn't know anything about art. He had googled Vincent van Gogh and learned some interesting facts. Or well, Micro had googled Vincent van Gogh and told him some interesting facts that he had pretty much forgotten.

Fuck. How long had it been since he'd been on a date?

An airy, sultry feminine voice caught his attention. "You come here often?"

Jet black hair pulled into a sexy updo. Eyes bright and round as if they'd just swallowed a star. Plump, pouty lips stained dark brown. And skin toasted until it was the color of radiance. He could've recognized her from a mile away. It was that stupid graffiti girl. The one that had a death wish and kept tagging him on the sides of buildings like he was some superhero.

She was beautiful, goddamn beautiful, but Frank didn't let that get in the way of his anger.

"What the hell are you doing here? Are you stalking me?"

"Relax, Petey," she teased. "I'm your blind date."

"You're Missouri?"

"Duh."

"Leo and Zach's art teacher? Missouri Frye?"

"How are you surprised? Didn't you ask David for a pic when he said he was setting you up? It was the first thing I did when Sarah said she knew the perfect match for me." Her question made it sound like it was the most obvious thing in the world for someone to do. It wasn't obvious when you forgot what dating was even like.

Frank blinked, stunned and unsure of what his next move should be that would have the least amount of backlash. Storming out seemed like the best option.

Then she took off her jacket. Beneath the coat, she was wearing a strappy black dress that embraced her hips and breasts like it wanted to know her intimately. She bent over to put her purse down beside the easel and Frank had to call upon Jesus, Mary and Joseph to stop himself from tilting his head to take a peek at what awaited underneath that dress. He'd only ever seen her twice, and both times she was wearing grungy attire covered in spray paint. She'd gotten dolled up for him.

If he left he'd be an asshole. He had no choice. He'd endure the night. Show her a good time and let her know that he just wasn't ready to date. No reason to break the girls heart. She was about to take her seat but Frank popped up and pulled the stool out for her.

"Mr. Manners," she said as she sat. "Whoulda thunk?"

"If a guy doesn't hold a door open for you or pull out your chair on a first date, you need to run the other way."

She chuckled at his reply but didn't say much after that. Missouri painted in silence. Not bothering to follow the instructor's lead like everyone else, but instead doing her own thing. Though he was trying to concentrate on the brush strokes the instructor was teaching them to do, Frank's head was whirring with ideas as to why that was. Was it because he was boring?

Or was she just nervous? Was he making her nervous?

Just as he was about to jump into the deep end of self-doubt, she finally spoke. "Clearly you've never painted before in your life."

The instructor was teaching them to draw a bowl of fruits, but his looked more like a very colorful cat hiding in a bucket. "What do you mean? This, this is a work of art."

"Is it upside down?" she asked, scrunching her nose.

Frank flipped the canvas upside down. Surprisingly, it did look more like a bowl of fruit that way.

He rotated to its original position. "No. Besides," he paused and looked over at her painting. "We all can't be a Picasso like you."

She had chosen to paint fruit, but not. Hers was a bowl of cherries in the act of being overturned. It wasn't complete, but already it was looking realistic enough that it felt like one of the cherries might roll off the canvas and onto the floor.

"You called my emotion driven graffiti work a doodle, but half-assed art made with cheap acrylics you find value in."

Their back and forth continued until the wine came. While everyone else in the class received just enough to get them buzzed, Missouri was given an entire bottle of Jack Daniels for her and Frank to share.

"Why do you get special treatment?" he asked as she filled up his cup with the amber liquid.

"Because he likes me and he knows I prefer liquor," she replied.

The instructor didn't seem like her type at all. He was bald, for starters. Scrawny. Nothing like Frank. The guy didn't even seem like he could complete a set of pushups without his arms giving out. "You got a thing for that guy?" he asked.

"Don't be jealous, Petey," she laughed.

He wasn't. "You didn't answer my question."

"Because you're not asking the right questions."

"And what question should I be asking?"

Their eyes met. "If I'm going to sleep with you." She gave him no time to pose the question and instead raised her glass. "Salute."

He clinked his glass against hers. "Salute."

They were half way through the bottle of Jack when their date changed pace and kicked into a higher gear. All the inhibitions that Frank had felt earlier had vanished. Micro was right. He deserved a little fun, and Missouri was just that. Harmless fun.


	4. Whiskey Dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank and Missouri's date goes smoothly, but not for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed writing Frank Castle. This particular chapter took me so long to write. Five different iterations, a bazillion different ways that weren't working for me. I hope you all enjoy it. It's kind of the start of the journey Frank and Missouri are about to go on. Let me know what you think!

Do you miss sex?

"You're drunk," Missouri playfully teased, the soft sigh of her breath tickling the crook of Frank's neck. She drooped herself into his side, barely able to keep herself sitting upright in their sequestered booth table. Her voice was low, something he could barely hear beneath the pound of some current hiphop shit, but the slur of her words was apparent. She spoke as if it took everything within her to formulate coherent sentences. Every syllable took a considerable amount of effort. "Lightweight."

His fingers found the dip of her hip as he scooted her closer into him and prevented her from collapsing into the small table in front of them. "Yeah, I ain't the only one, sweetheart."

"There's nothing sweet about me, Pete, you'll learn that."

"Is that right?"

Frank tried not to be a skeeze and appreciate the softness of her thighs or the way her breasts swelled which each deep breath she took in that lethally low cut dress of hers. Even her fucking brown skin sparkled in the ugly blue lighting of the bar. It was like her skin was forged from diamonds. What type of shimmery shit was that? Lotion?

He downed another shot of. Burning away his thoughts seemed like the only sensible solution and yet, one nagging question refused to leave his mind. No matter how much he attempted to drink it into oblivion, no matter how much he wanted to live in the moment, the stupid fucking question Leiberman once asked him screamed loudly between his ears. It was on repeat since the two of them left their art class.

Do you miss sex?

"You tryna get me liquored up, is that what you're up to?"

"I absolutely am," she whispered, placing her hand atop Frank's lap. Immediately, he felt warmth radiate from her touch. It was a heat he hadn't felt in God knows how long. Powerful enough to paralyze him with desire and leave himself at her mercy. All he could do was watch her perfectly manicured hand edge further inward against his thigh.

"There's at least thirty people in this bar, odds are someone's watching us right now."

"Lucky them. I don't mind being watched," she said. "I'm just curious, that's all."

"Curious."

"Mhm."

"Of what, might I ask?"

"What is Pete Castiliogne made of? What type of heat is he packing? Or if you want me to put it bluntly, how big is your dick?"

Her fingers crept along the fabric of Frank's jeans and not once did her eyes leave his. He'd stared into the souls of cold, hard killers - the kind of monsters you prayed were only fictional. Never had he been at the receiving end of a gaze like hers. One that both terrified and thrilled him.

You're not the one in control.

The statement all but fucking sparkled in her dark eyes.

I run this shit.

Like fuck she did.

"You tell me," he stated calmly as he poured himself another shot. "Come find out and tell me what you think."

Frank's heart hammered with sweet satisfaction the moment her finger pressed into the front his black levi's. The pressure beneath her grip was firm, confident, without delicacy.

"Jesus, Frank." It was the first time while on their date she used his actual name. "I knew it. I swear to god, I knew. You don't disappoint."

He sunk into the growing pleasure, allowing his head to fall into the red leather of the booth. Most women were either too afraid or too inexperienced to grab a man the way Missouri had him in the palm of her hand. She touched him as if she knew he was hers from the very start, as if she'd been patiently waiting for this since the first time they met over seven months ago.

His breath came out in a jagged hiss. "You like what you feel?"

"Yes, sir," she said with such an innocence Frank would've believed her if she weren't grabbing his dick beneath the table.

It brought a smile to his face, nonetheless. "That's what fucking I thought."

"Let's get out of here." Her whisper was so fragile it almost feels like a plea. "Walk me home."

He wasn't going to tell her no.

Inhibitions lowered, Frank Castle allowed himself to actually feel something. Something more than just the steady buzz of liquor coursing in him. All the rage and bitter anger dulled until he barely could acknowledge it. Lust and desire took its place. He deserved this. A moment of release. No guilt, no shame, only a wash of relief as the burden of being the Punisher lifted itself.

"You were planning this from the start." The bar was two blocks from her apartment. It took them less than three minutes before Frank found himself on the stoop of the tattered apartment complex she called home, kissing every inch of the exposed bronzed skin of her shoulder. He may have been drunk, but he knew a plan when he saw one. "Atta girl. I'm impressed."

One hand snaked around her waist, grounding her back into him, the other tilting her chin to the side to nip at the vein pulsing beneath his teeth. When he heard her whimper he bit a little harder.

She moaned louder.

"So that's what you're into. The rough shit."

"Just a disclaimer," Missouri breathed as she reached into her purse to grab her keys. "I'm not looking for a relationship, Pete."

"That goes without saying. You don't have to say shit we both know."

"I not joking."

"What's it gonna take to get you to shut up?"

"A dick down my throat."

God bless this woman.

It didn't take that fucking long for any moderately intelligent person to open a door. Impatience building, Frank was seconds away from using the bottom of his shoe to do the trick. Thankfully it didn't come to that. As if by magic the metal door swung open.

To Frank's chagrin, Missouri wasn't the one who did it. Her hand was still in her purse, looking for lost keys when it opened.

"Shit," said the red-headed woman with the swollen eye. She stood on the opposite end of the building's threshold. A five foot two barrier blocking the path Missouri's bedroom. "I'm like so fucking sorry, Missy. I was just about to go for a cigarette run. I'm not like some peeping fucking Tom."

Missouri eased away from Frank's pull. "Don't apologize, Joan, you didn't do anything wrong."

"Sorry. Crap, I'm apologizing again huh? Sorry- shit! It's a sucky habit," Joan gave a broken smile. She also bore a busted lip. It was fading. The color wasn't a noticeable shade to anyone with an untrained eye. And it was nowhere near as fresh as the black bruise beneath her baby blues. But Frank saw that shit. Even with her dirty grey hoodie pulled over her head, she still looked like she fought her way through hell. "You look bomb a.f. tonight, Missy."

"Thanks, girl!"

"And your date is cute too."

"I know, right?!"

"So I was just going for a cigarette run." She said that already. "Need anything? Chips, slim jims, condoms?" She let out a shaky laugh. It would've been awkward had she not looked like she was a sneeze away from a nervous breakdown. "I'm just kidding, no one uses those any more." Silence followed. It was a silence Joan couldn't handle since she started to fill it with more talking. "I'm gonna bail now. Laters."

Joan left without another word. She excused her way past Frank and jogged down the rest of the apartment's steps before traveling into Hell's Kitchen. Neither Missouri or Frank said a word. Who needed to? It was palpable, the way the tension between them shifted. No longer was it carnal or fleshly. And Frank wasn't about to bullshit with anyone. Something serious was going on.

"Nooooooo," Missouri whined as she rested her head against the swung open doorframe. "You're about to be a buzzkill. We can still go up to my apar-"

"Who did that to her?"

"Noooooo, Frank, let it go."

Let it go? How could he let something like that go?

"Who did that, Missouri?"

"Why would I know?"

"Women like her don't go around picking fights because they could never win one."

"That's misogynistic and language you're using is actually problematic-"

"Don't fuck around, this is serious."

"Sure is," she replied. "It surely fucking is. It's also her business. Hers. Not yours or mine."

"So that's it?"

"Of course that's it. What else can it be? Simmer down, Frank."

"You hear it when it happens, hmm." Missouri's eyes went to any distraction she could find. He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. "Yeah... you turn the tv up or put something on to drown the sound out, but you can still hear it. You might as well be punching her in the goddamn face too if you're not going to do anything about it."

She shoved him away. Hard. If he were any drunker he could've tripped down the steps behind him. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"If you say I don't, then I don't."

"That's literally why I just said it. Jesus Christ, Frank, you're wasting my time now." Missouri wore her frustrations on her face. Anger and disbelief melted into a harsh shade of disappointment. "I have work tomorrow and I was gonna call off for you. Eight year olds. Tomorrow I'm gonna be hung the fuck over and have to teach eight year olds how to mix colors. Imma let you in on a little secret, middle schoolers don't give a fuck about art. Bumpo and Davey, my roommates who love me oh so much, yeah, they gave me the apartment all to myself because you couldn't tell me I wasn't about to get dicked down til the break of dawn. This is a new dress, I painted my nails, and I put on so much shimmery fucking lotion I feel like a goddamn pixie queen right now. So as you can see, I'm not about to sit here and blase-blase-wase-whoop with you."

"Speak english, sweetheart."

Missouri fixed her mouth to say something. Frank heard just a squeak of it come out of her mouth before she sucked her teeth and exhaled sharply. "You can fuck me or you can fuck off. Either way, sweetheart, I'm gucci."

What the fuck?

Frank didn't know whether to laugh or clap. Deciding on doing the former, he gave a spiteful chuckle at the little tangent he witnessed. Maybe there had been a miscommunication between them somewhere along the way. Somewhere between her painting him on the side of a building and getting him hard, Missouri thought she was the Sargent of shit. That she barked orders, and like a respectable marine, Frank would obey them.

Or maybe Frank Castle was prideful. Maria always scorned him about his ego.

Didn't matter, his decision was clear. Whiskey dick or not. "You have yourself a good night."


End file.
